Since the arrival of Spring, somehow without even knowing it, late afternoon walks has become a favorite past time of W and I. After a 4PM snack over tea and biscuits, we've made it a ritual now to go out for a rejuvenating walk under the glowing warm afternoon sun. It's the perfect way to end a weekend, and to pause and refresh for the coming week ahead.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon, W and I walked under drizzling rain to visit three little 9-week-old kittens in the 7th arrondissement nearby. On a nondescript residential street, we entered a 4-number code at a big green door that opened to a single cobblestoned street lined with beautiful two-story houses.

There's a certain bliss in wandering Paris' streets by foot, in that moment of discovery when you uncover a little path, garden, museum, or café. While in New York, you may be inclined to embrace the crowds, here in Paris, it's all about finding your own intimate place for conversations, work, and play.

Paris feels like it's on the cusp of Spring, in a slow but steady awakening from the dormant winter. On Wednesday afternoon, as the tantalizing sunshine peered through the windows, I couldn't help but slip out to nearby Jardin du Luxembourg for some fresh air.

Long legs and croissants, red wine and clothing boutiques, chocolate and Macarons!It seems like to most people that there just cannot be a more pleasant place to live in the world other than Paris. I mean, who doesn't want to be sipping Bordeaux wine on the Seine river / Jardin des Tuileries / [insert any Paris location] in perfect 73 degrees weather? Okay, yes it rains a little here, and gets a tad bit colder in the winter - so you just go sip your Bordeaux wine under the heated covered outdoor patio of a café by the Seine instead. What could possibly be wrong?

Prior to dinners, not only do I expect two hours of pre-dinner chat outdoors over red wine. I also expect cafés to have heaters in the winter so I can sit outdoors and chat over red wine. Very mild temperature fluctuations in Paris facilitates this year-round activity, as temperatures rarely fall out of the 40-75 degrees range.

The Parisian default expression is a mix of contempt, aloofness with a dash of elite cynicism. People watching is also a thing here, as demonstrated by the regards I’m getting from a man across from me. I look straight pass him with a perfected face of utter boredom. I'm on the train from Paris’ major south station Montparnasse that'll take me out towards HEC’s leafy suburban campus 20 miles southwest of the capital.

Saturday, Will took me to Canal Saint Martin, a beautiful canal to the North of Paris. Built by Napoleon in 1802, it had once supplied the booming city population with freshwater. It was the perfect day just cold enough for big knitted scarves. Strolling along the pathway at water level, we watched the last of the autumn leaves gently fall over the perfectly calm waters.

New York for me always possessed a certain kind of possibility. It was the city of dreamers, doers, and winners. Sky was the limit. Ambition was king. Rags to riches was an entirely plausible storyline, practically the story of the city. You could go anywhere, do anything, as long as you dared and dreamed (and paid, of course, with your time, energy, and if you stayed long enough, your soul). It was about being the best, at everything - money, power, love and fame, and everything in between. New York was about achieving, and winning. And that made me love it with an undeniable passion.

"How much do you think these things are actually worth?" I touched a small bronze statue that was selling for 50 euros.

"It's not about the price anymore," S said as she flipped through old postcards with cursive handwriting all over them. "They're selling these things to give them a new life. There's meaning behind that." She smiled at me.